In This Shirt
by crowlow
Summary: Songfic for "In This Shirt" by The Irrepressibles. Shuuhei hasn't been able to get over the memory of Muguruma Kensei for over a century, but they've finally met again at the Vizard's warehouse. Originally posted Oct. 19th, 2010.


It is early morning when he comes around, and he's already visited enough times for the Vizard to comfortably leave their doors open and unguarded. In the past he liked to tell himself that all his visits were strictly business oriented, and even now he still reminds himself of that. But he isn't an idiot (not completely, at least) and deep down he is well aware that "being there for business" is a cover up. Deep down, in the pitch-black recesses of his soul where he can't always hide from the truth, he knows that the majority of his visits - if not all of them - are solely inspired by a certain silver-haired Vizard. He tries his damnedest to separate the two, or just to stop obsessing all together, but it's difficult when routine obsession was always one of his more insistent vices.

Old habits die hard, they say. And the chains of his went from pesky cobwebs to stringent wire a long, long time ago.

When he enters their worn-down warehouse, he waits for one of them to greet him and let him downstairs, but minutes pass and still no one comes. He stands still and stiff in the doorway, staring at the spot that opens to the basement below. He holds his arms behind his back, clasping at his wrist tightly and briefly flexing the fingers of his captive hand. They move with uncertainty and trepidation.

He thinks about leaving, wonders if they're out, or if they're knowingly ignoring his presence at their daunting threshold. His grip on his arm stiffens and he shifts his feet, torn between pivoting one-eighty or stepping forward. After a moment of listening to the sound of his tabi scraping against dirt and gravel, he moves forward with purpose, creeping farther into their ruined fortress. His footsteps are silent as the grave, but he thinks that that is the nature of walking inside a tomb of the departed. And immediately he is ashamed for considering such a disrespectful notion, especially when he hears a crazed cackle in its wake. Kazeshini's nauseating excitement makes him grimace, and he's sickened by the sight of it swathed in dusty burial wrappings, grinning perversely as it swings their life-reaping scythes.

The spirit howls in his inner world with gross delight, and Shuuhei tries to ignore Kazeshini's crows about him being the Grim Keeper of the dead. What disturbs him most is the feeling that Kazeshini's words aren't that of a usual taunt, but an indecent innuendo.

At this point he is wound so tightly that he can barely see straight. Through sheer anxiety his eyes are blown wide, but they're more feverishly cautious than alert. He finds himself stepping past the hidden passageway in the floor, and towards the back of the warehouse. Morning sunlight is creeping in through water-stained glass, and its melancholy glow is briefly blinding until he's under the cover of broken concrete from the ruined floor above. He hates to realize it, but the shadows seem to welcome him like a long lost lover. They lunge for him and cling to his willowy frame, wild and desperate and suffocating. It makes his skin crawl and he turns his head away as if to deny them, to reject their agitated shroud. His breathing sounds heavy to his own ears, so he inhales deeply through his nose. Once he's claimed a calming breath, he reaches out to smooth his hand over cold concrete. The wall is bitter against his palm, and its rough texture scrapes skin that is too hardened from decades of battle to even notice. As he walks along the wall slowly and runs his hand across its surface, he spots countless muddy stains. His fingers brush them with morbid curiosity, and he instantly concludes that it's dried blood. The evidence of countless conflicts, he wonders? The mark of pain and suffering?

He envisions eight shinigami from a lost age, behind masks that they inherited against their will, howling with rage and ripping into flesh as they struggle to oppress their inner demons.

A sudden chill surrounds him, and he instinctively draws his arms close to his chest. He hugs himself, and shuts his eyes as he inhales. The air around him smells of crisp winter, or maybe a dry summer. He can't tell the difference, all he knows is that it pricks his skin and makes his hair stand on end. The back of his neck tickles and his arms are shivery, but he doesn't try to escape it. He just bows his head towards his chest as his fingers bite into the mistakenly unsullied white of his captain's haori. He bunches the fabric in his fists, and turns his head to the side. He doesn't open his eyes as he reaches up, catching part of his haori and lifting it to his nose so he can smell it. He inhales deeply and opens his mouth on a silent gasp, because he thinks that it'll enhance the scent.

And he pretends that it isn't his haori, but the haori of someone else. The haori of an old ghost, a phantom that haunts him on a silver wind. He wishes he could say that that wind's been chasing _him,_ but instead he's been chasing it. Why else did he join the Ninth of all Divisions? Why else does he always envision a tattooed captain in a sleeveless haori whenever he looks down at his own? He's tried to convince himself that he stopped believing in heroes, and for the most part he feels that he's been successful. When he looks at his fellow shinigami, the other men and women of Soul Society, he sees only that. Soldiers doing their duty and nothing more. And yet, when he's alone, desperate and despairing, he can't help aching for another rescue. He's disgusted with himself for feeling that way after so long; for idolizing someone he met for only a fleeting moment, hoping that the next time he looks over his shoulder he'll see his savior standing over him again, even after a century. He hates himself for craving that when another part of him wants so badly to stand alone. Ever since the betrayal of his late captain he's been fighting against dependency, promising himself that he'd never again be foolish enough to expect anything from anyone.

But, insisting that he is the only one he should rely on sounds like a hideous fallacy, when he can't even trust himself to control his own power.

"Kid, are you getting off to the smell of your own haori?"

Shuuhei jumps, and his eyes fly open to the unexpected manifestation of his ruthless specter. Muguruma Kensei is standing about ten feet away, underneath a golden spray of daylight. The sun rays dye his silver hair a glaring white, and the bright gleam of his golden piercings only bring more attention to his amber eyes. Shuuhei sees the contrast there, and his heart is already hammering as he lets go of his haori hurriedly. He resists the urge to smooth his hair down and wipe under his nose guiltily. He feels the shame of being caught sniffing around in someone's underwear drawer.

"It needs a wash," he mutters numbly, running a hand over his sleeveless haori. He's embarrassed that the sweat of his palms (and the tightness of his grip) left creases in its white fabric. That embarrassment settles deeply in his bones (like a scolded animal sinking low to the ground, trying to hide itself from the world) when Kensei cocks his brow. The older man stares at him unblinkingly, and Shuuhei becomes acutely aware of the fact that the chill he felt earlier may not have been a natural occurrence, but the wind-wielding Vizard. He is admittedly aghast, though he makes a conscious effort of keeping it from showing on his face, or any other part of his person. How long has the Vizard been standing there? How much did he see?

Kensei steps forward, and somehow his movements seem both agonizingly slow and alarmingly quick. In a moment he's standing in front of Shuuhei, and even though he's at eye level with the younger man, he seems to tower over him. Shuuhei knows that it's probably just a trick of the mind, an overzealous memory from that day, but knowing that doesn't make him feel any better. He waits for Kensei to say something else, but instead he's shocked when a large hand lands against his chest. It doesn't pause for long, already running down, and the heat of Kensei's palm scourging his torso is almost as red-hot as the golden eyes staring into him. Shuuhei jerks and tries to escape, backing up only to find that the wall is directly behind him. The cold concrete snaps its steely jaws at his bare shoulders, but that's at the back of his mind as a large, powerful body bears down on his own.

Kensei's hand continues its steady descent, and Shuuhei is already panting softly, his dark eyes wide and his body taut with disbelief. When strong fingers brush his waist, his hand shoots out to grasp Kensei's wrist.

"What are you doing?" he asks, sharp and breathless. His chest is heaving and he's pressed so tight to the wall that he wouldn't be surprised if he fell into it. The older man stares at him silently, his rugged features unreadable. He moves against Shuuhei's grip on his wrist, slipping his fingers past the white ties at the shinigami's waist. Shuuhei's blunt nails dig into Kensei's muscular forearm, but he doesn't push it away.

"Tell me you don't need this," the Vizard mutters, in a low, deep baritone. His fingers are calloused and scorching against Shuuhei's quivering abdomen, and the younger man bites his tongue against a whine, already on the edge of losing his mind.

"Tell me you don't need this," Kensei repeats, dipping his hand lower, forcing his way inside Shuuhei's hakama. He keeps his amber gaze steady on the younger man's flushed face as he covers Shuuhei's erect cock. "Tell me you don't need this more than that haori 'needs a wash,' " he mutters with bone-dry amusement, a hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth that stops short of his intense, penetrating eyes. "Tell me you don't, and I'll stop."

Shuuhei swallows, and tries to think outside the warm, calloused hand resting against his cock. The seconds tick by and he still hasn't said anything, and he knows that he won't because he really has nothing _to _say. He simply stares at the older man beneath lowered lashes, his mouth open faintly as he struggles for air. He is stone-still against the wall, and his brows twitch and furrow as Kensei moves his hand. Shuuhei utters a hushed, strangled sound, so soft that it's barely audible. The moment is so intense and tightly drawn that he starts to feel the prick of tears at the corner of his eyes. He screws them shut and grits his teeth, leaning back to get away from a feeling that is more pain than pleasure.

But Kensei's other arm encircles him, gripping him around the waist to pull him back. He holds onto Shuuhei, and curls his fingers around the younger man's arousal, holding it snugly for a heartbeat before stroking upwards. Shuuhei quivers in his arms, a constrained groan edging its way between tightly clasped teeth. Kensei's brows are furrowed and his mouth sets grimly, his grip constricting as he runs his thumb over the swollen head. He does it slowly, takes his time, tries to soothe the younger man because he seems more bound up _now _than he was before Kensei ever approached him. But Shuuhei is shaking, and his breathing is harsh and clipped. Kensei stills his hand before leaning closer, and Shuuhei's reflexes seem dull and sluggish because he doesn't respond when the Vizard brushes their lips together, surprisingly feather light for someone like him.

Slow, but not completely unaware. It takes him a second or two to realize what just happened, but when he does he reacts like he's been burned. He jerks his head away and makes a strange sound that's not unlike a mangled hiss. "What are you doing?" the younger man demands for a second time. His eyes are wide and wild, and he grabs Kensei's wrist again, trying to yank the man's hand out of his hakama. "Let go. Let go, Muguru-"

"Relax," Kensei orders, extracting his hand. But instead of moving away he presses forward, pushing the younger man against the wall, holding him there with the weight of his body. He wrestles halfheartedly as Shuuhei struggles against him, the two of them fighting each other for domination. "_Fucking relax,_" the Vizard growls, though it's really nothing more than the natural gruffness of his voice (with a hint of frustration, maybe). He grapples for a good hold on the younger man's body as it tries pushing him away, and it's really a lot stronger than its slenderness would suggest.

"You said you'd stop," Shuuhei suddenly rasps, and he nearly flinches at the sound of hushed panic in his voice. He goes dangerously still, and his eyes focus unblinkingly on a spot over Kensei's shoulder as he clenches his jaw. He steals a silent moment to himself so he can rein in his composure, then turns hard eyes on the older man. "You said you'd stop if I told you that I didn't need it. I don't, so let go."

It's Kensei's turn to go dangerously still. He stares back, forceful amber locked with defiant gray. He remains silent for a long minute, and in that time he doesn't make any move to retreat. Instead he simply arches his pierced brow, his expression unruffled. "Are you sure about that?"

Shuuhei wants to shout "_Yes!_", wants to push Kensei away with what's left of his shaky self-control. He wants to smooth his hands over himself and ignore the fact that his body has betrayed him, that he's currently sporting a rock-hard erection that _Muguruma Kensei_ was stroking just a moment ago. But it's _that _train of thought that stills his tongue. Because his childhood hero - the very man he's been unable to forget for over a century, the one and only silver-haired Vizard who's dominated his every waking thought since the war - was _trying to jerk him off,_ and how could he _possibly _ignore something like that? It's so incredibly unreal that he knows he has to be dreaming it up, and the words "punch me" are on the very tip of his tongue. But he'll be fucking damned if he says that out loud, even in a dreamworld, although he has a feeling that Kensei has caught onto his thoughts anyway, if the suspicious look of his amber gaze is anything to go by.

He can't bring himself to do it, to think that even for a second, Kensei might actually _want _him. He's always been convinced that it would be too much to ask for, too much to hope. So he can't do it, he can't accept that there's even a remote chance of sincerity, and he tells himself that this is a sick joke. Hirako Shinji is probably hiding somewhere, and he's going to jump out at any minute, pointing at Shuuhei and howling with laughter. Yeah, no, this moment isn't a dream come true, but another curse. Another memory to weigh heavily on his soul and drag him down into the deeper depths of his own personal hell.

He doesn't believe that after all this time, after all the impersonal visits and the sidelong stares that were rarely returned, that Kensei means what he's doing. The older man is acting on some spontaneous impulse, if anything, and-

Just when Shuuhei is readying himself for that overdue "Yes, I'm certain," Kensei lifts his hand. He reaches up to his mouth, and grips his fingerless glove between his teeth. He pulls at the orange leather slowly until his hand is free, and then he holds it out, offering his naked palm to Shuuhei. For a moment the younger man is silently dumbfounded, and he stares at Kensei before glancing down at his outstretched hand. His face reddens when he realizes what Kensei is after, and his mouth is suddenly dry. He stares dumbly for another few seconds, trying to jump-start his short-circuiting brain as the older man lets out an agitated growl.

"Fuck, kid, I've never seen someone _think _so fucking hard about getting off. You're hard, I'm here, and I'm willing to give you a hand. What's there to consider?" Scowling softly, Kensei curls his middle finger underneath Shuuhei's chin, using it to lift slightly so he has the younger man's attention. "Just let it happen."

It's something in the Vizard's tone when he says those four words, or maybe it's something in his amber eyes. Something that's casually. . ._beseeching,_ almost, which is something astounding in and of itself, making Shuuhei even more uncertain than he already was. He feels as if those four words mean so much more than what they actually say, and he's in the process of starting to analyze things all over again when Kensei frowns, his glare sharpening. Shuuhei knows that on the outside he must appear frozen and annoyingly indecisive, but on the inside he's a mess of restless nerves, panicked thoughts and torrential heartbeats. He is distantly aware of Kazeshini crooning in the back of his mind, reduced to nothing more than unintelligible mutterings and whines. But Shuuhei _knows,_ and the darker part of himself is _aching_ to follow suit and drown in his zanpakutou's fever. So he stops thinking, as hard as it fucking is, just long enough to lean over Kensei's hand and spit into his open palm.

Kensei jerks his head to fling his glove aside, before hurriedly adding his own saliva to Shuuhei's. He hovers over the younger man, and his hold on Shuuhei's waist tightens as he reaches between them. Shuuhei hisses instantly when the Vizard grips his cock, arching to that wonderfully rough hand. Kensei quickly takes control, working Shuuhei with strong, sure strokes. The tunnel of his fist is tight and slick, and the younger man grips Kensei's flexed biceps, his fingers biting into surprisingly soft, tanned flesh. He groans raggedly, and is rattled by the loudness of his own voice. He clings to Kensei, desperate for more friction as he snakes his arm around the man's broad shoulders, clutching at the soft material of Kensei's jersey shirt. His hips thrust wildly as he fucks himself against the older man's fist, and his panting escalates dramatically with every twist and jerk of Kensei's wrist. He claws at the Vizard as he gasps and groans, his eyes starting to roll. His orgasm is fast approaching and he knows that he won't last long, that he's going to come embarrassingly soon. But he can't seem to help himself, and Kensei doesn't seem to care either way as his hand speeds up. Shuuhei can feel the Vizard's other hand drifting lower on his back, fingers digging into the swell of his ass, and Kensei's warm breath against the shell of his ear. It's the feel of that hot caress that sends him over the edge, and he curls against Kensei, almost like he's trying to fold in on himself.

Eyes screwing shut, Shuuhei gasps loudly and holds onto Kensei's back as his climax rocks him to his very core. He spills himself over Kensei's hand in hot jets, and he's certain that he'll have inevitably stained the other man's shirt. But he can't give a fucking damn, not when he's spent and panting harshly against Kensei's neck. The Vizard's skin is made moist by his breath, and he keeps holding on as he presses closer and unconsciously inhales, greedily smelling of Kensei's throat. The man's hand carried him through his orgasm, stroking him until he was through, and now it's resting by his hip as the other rubs his back slowly. Relaxing in Kensei's hold, Shuuhei leans his face against the man's broad shoulder, and keeps his eyes closed as he reaches down. His hand is shaky, either from his orgasm or nervousness he can't be sure. But it lands where he wants it to, and he doesn't hesitate for more than a few seconds. He grips the zipper of Kensei's cargo pants and drags it down, his heart thumping anew at the sound of its teeth disengaging. He's about to slip his hand inside the older man's pants when suddenly, his wrist is seized in Kensei's hand.

"It's fine."

Shuuhei stops instantly at the sound of those words. Kensei is still holding him in his arms, but the man's grip on his wrist is firm. Shuuhei's dark eyes remain shut, and the tempo of his heart is quickening, drumming loudly in his ears. Kensei has to be able to feel it beating against his own chest, and Shuuhei holds his breath, because he's worried that if he lets himself breathe it will be noticeably unstable. After a moment he exhales in a rush, his breath teasing the prickling flesh of Kensei's neck.

"Just let it happen," the younger man mutters quietly as he moves his hand forward, pushing past his fear and uncertainty. He doesn't know whether to be surprised or not when he's met with little resistance, but he tells himself not to dwell on it (demands it, really) and manages to slip his fingers inside Kensei's pants. The warm cotton of Kensei's Living World underwear is damp and sticky with precome, and that alone has Shuuhei shuddering. He wets his lips, and his tongue skirts along Kensei's neck, tasting the older man's salty skin. A spike of desire surges through him and he can't help pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Kensei's throat, moaning brokenly. He cups the older man and rubs his hand up and down over Kensei's cock, relishing the feel of its warmth and hardness.

He's so focused on _Kensei's_ _cock in his hand,_ on the thought of having it _in his mouth,_ that it takes him a moment to register the fact that Kensei's grabbing him by the nape to pull him back. Shuuhei cracks his eyes open dazedly, just in time to see the man's flushed face before their mouths collide. His eyes widen in surprise, and Kensei's are closed as he holds Shuuhei there, cupping the back of his head with his large, warm hand. He kisses the younger man heatedly, his mouth open but his tongue doing little more than eagerly tasting Shuuhei's lips. Shuuhei trembles violently and groans, his lips parting automatically. As the Vizard's tongue plunges between his lips to touch his, Shuuhei finds himself pinned to the wall once more, and groaning shamelessly as his hand slips past the final layer of clothing to grasp Kensei's bare cock.


End file.
